I say “may,” because some difficult neighbors will find something else to complain about, once you fix the last issue they brought to your attention. If your neighbor continues to complain to you, after you’ve sent this olive branch, then think about the bigger picture here. But back to this juncture, I’d consider this person difficult but not a chronically problematic neighbor. At least not yet. Please try my suggestion, and see what happens. My family was very wealthy and my father had become a sounding board for the richest and most powerful in Britain. Then family members all went their separate ways: married, moved to distant parts and my parents retired to Malta. The event:
While my mom was working nights as an ER admissions clerk, my dad would drag me along to a local ice house where he would sit and watch sports while he got drunk with his friends. One of the guys who hung out there noticed that some of the drunks were kind of creeping on me (I was 5 to 6 years old). So he started sitting at the back corner table I preferred because there was enough light for me to read or draw. He would tell me corny jokes, ask about the book I was reading or whatever. Any time a drunk would linger on their way to the toilet, he’d give them what I came to identify as “the grandpa glare”. If I got hungry he’d buy me snacks.
Basically the guy just hung out there because his wife had passed and his daughter had moved to another state with her husband and kids. He just wanted to be around people. It didn’t take him long to realize I wasn’t a typical kid. I was reading high school level books by then and often on subjects like biology, chemistry, archaeology, mythology or whatever else was the main interest at the time. He didn’t talk down to me like a lot of adults did. When dad was too drunk to drive, he wouldn’t let him drive home with me in the car. He would insist on driving us home. He’d drag dad in and put him to bed. He’d set me up with snacks and juice and tell me to call him if I needed help.
Considering that my elder siblings would take off and leave me there alone with dad when he would go on a drunken rampage, it was nice to know that if he got too crazy, I had someone I could trust to help me until my mom could get to me. There was also an elderly Mexican couple that sometimes babysat me that would let me crash on their sofa when needed after they found me outside curled up with their dog in his house, reading a book to him by flashlight. My childhood was pretty messed up.
Technically a CNA is not called a nurse. It’s a degradation to real nurses that go through nursing school. I did go through 1 semester of it but that’s it. I only did clinicals as a CNA and as a Nursing student. However, the one thing that felt tragic to me was when I cared for my grandfather, he had prostate and esophageal cancer often referred to as throat cancer. He had a catheter that was inserted into his stomach. I would flush it, empty it, and clean it it. When I took him to the prostate Doctor my grandfather had to lie back as I held his hand and they inserted a tube into his penis.
Now alone in London and the family home locked up, ready for sale, I was to stay in a small hotel in South London, for the Christmas season. My father left me with a cheque to cover the hotel cost. The hotel refused it. Well, I coped, because I am built that way. but it was shock. Years later, it was my 21st; my father had hired a marquee and band to celebrate by sister’s 21st; for mine, I received not a card, present, or phone call from anyone.